


South Side in New York

by iamthececimonster



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, EMT Ian Gallagher, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich in Love, It's really just Mickey and Ian getting a chance to be cute and cheesy, M/M, Mechanic Mickey Milkovich, Post-Canon, but they don't really know how to do that, do they?, they try their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthececimonster/pseuds/iamthececimonster
Summary: I was talking to a friend of mine about how, basically, Ian and Mickey (and the rest of the Gallaghers and Milkoviches, tbh) probably have some really messed up love maps. That kind of long-lasting trauma and the way they lived doesn't lend itself to a "normal" life.But Ian and Mickey? They make it work. They'll always make it work, because this is them.Takes place after Ian and Mickey both get out of prison.





	South Side in New York

**Author's Note:**

> Things I don't know a lot about: parole, jail time, how to timeline, children aging, etc.   
> Things this story has in it: parole, jail time, timelines, children aging, etc.   
> Please be kind.

Mickey had been out of prison for 1 week, 2 days, 5 hours, 37 minutes, and about...21 seconds. He'd been fucked straight into their mattress by his boyfriend, eaten a steak so rare he could practically hear it mooing, met with his P.O., spent some time with his son after convincing his estranged sort-of-wife to come back with him, was starting a job in a mechanic shop, and was in the middle of the most delightful nap. Except, now. Now he's standing in the doorway of his bedroom, sweatpants and a wife beater, staring at his defiant-looking 12 year old son with a busted upper lip and a bruise on his cheekbone, his exhausted looking sort-of-wife (you know, the mother of the aforementioned defiant 12-year-old), and his redheaded boyfriend who's got a strained look on his face. 

“Someone wanna explain to me what the fuck is going on here?” Mickey groans. He'd been sleeping, so fucking comfortably, when the door slammed shut and he jolted awake. 

Svet's eyes are tired and her mouth is a thin line, Yevgeny is sitting, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed in a frown that Mickey's at least 80% sure he's seen on his own fucking face before. Ian's head in his hands and he's groaning. 

“I picked Yev up from school,” the redhead speaks, finally, “And he's been given ISS for fighting.” 

“The fuck's this ISS bullshit?” Mickey feels a headache forming around his temples.

“In-school suspension.” 

“In-school…. The fuck? Did we have that shit when we were in school?” 

Ian shrugs. 

“Is this point?” Svetlana asks. 

Right, right. The point. “The fuck you fighting for?” Mickey asks his son. 

Kid just shrugs. Looks uncannily like Ian when he shrugs, it's almost unsettling. Svet throws her hands up in the air and storms off. Ian pinches the bridge of his nose and Mickey rubs the side of his nose with his thumb. 

“Yev. What the hell, man?” Mickey sits down across the table from his kid. “Did you at least win this fight you've decided to get in trouble for?” 

“Mickey!” Ian cries.

“What?!” Mickey holds his hands up in defense. “Not like either one of us has never been in a fight before, if-you-recall, Gallagher.” He raises one eyebrow.

Ian rolls his eyes to the ceiling, he knows his boyfriend's right, but that shouldn't be the point. 

“And besides that. If the kid's gonna be dumb enough to fight, on school property,  _ and  _ get caught, then refuse to tell us why, the least he can do is win the fight.” Mickey's scowling, all eyebrows and upper lip.

Yev's face is a fucking mirror image, but there's a hint of pride in his voice when he scoffs out, “Of course I won.” 

Ian's voice is softer, stern. Last time Mickey heard that voice, Ian was talking to Carl about ninja stars like...what? 15 years ago? “You gonna tell us what this fight was about?” 

Yev shifts in his seat. He looks uncomfortable. 

“Yev. Come on, kid. Talk to us.” Ian urges. 

So the kid talks. He's a 12 year old kid, a 12 year old mimic of the Mickey Mickey could've been if he had been given a chance. And he got into a fight because some dumb ass kid in his class started talking shit about his family. 

About his washed up thug of a father. 

About his father's wackjob fairy of a boyfriend. 

About his Russian whore of a mother. 

Mickey's fists are clenched under the table, Ian's face is pale beneath his freckles, and Svetlana's arms are crossed over her chest in the doorway she's leaning against, expression unreadable as always, but one of her hands is twitching slightly and her jaw is tight. 

They don't even bother to punish him. How the fuck could they? 

 

Sometime in the night, while Ian is curled around him and he can feel the redhead's breath against his neck, Mickey decides they've gotta leave. They can't keep doing this.  So he calls Mandy. She moved to New York a couple years ago after finally leaving her shitty woman-beating ex, she thinks that she can help them get settled or whatever.  Then he calls his PO, Ian calls his PO, and they get their paroles transferred, it's way easier than it ought to be. 

 

By the time Yev is done with 7th grade, they've got it settled. The Gallaghers help them pack up a U-Haul, Mandy's got them an apartment, Ian's got his EMT license transferred to New York, Mickey's got a job at a different shop in Redhook, and Svet's coming with them. They get Yev registered for school, Svet's got a job as a bartender at some shithole bar because “There will always been drunken assholes,” and breathing seems to come a little easier. 

Yev gets into a fight on the first day of 8th grade but it's after school and no one gets caught and Mickey just takes the kid's jello after dinner but winks when he says he won, because of course he won, he's Mickey Milkovich's son. No one even bothers to fight Yev after that.

A couple months in, some dumbass tries to reach across the bar and grab at Svet's chest while she's working - Mickey's having drinks after work with the one other asshole at the garage he can stand and watches the whole thing with a smile - and she bends his wrist so far back it starts to crack and tells the dumbass, with her flat voice and her dead expression, exactly what she'll do to his hand and then his nutsack if he ever tries to touch her again. Mickey's laughing and his coworker's a little terrified of the short, dark-haired man and the petite Russian bartender but the beer is cheap so it's fine.

Some preppy fucking nut job won't leave Ian alone while he and Mickey are out to dinner - “It's a date, Mick, remember? Nice shirt, sit down, utensils. We discussed this ad nauseam. It's a date.” “Fuck your date, Gallagher, wear the green shirt.” - and Ian looks like he's been backed into a corner, and rule number one of survival around a Gallagher is “Never Try to Back Them Into a Wall” (it's actually “Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to,” second rule is “Have an exit strategy,” then “Have no expectations,” “Always carry a baseball bat,” and THEN “Don't back a Gallagher into a wall,” but the point remains), Mickey's getting that Southside Milkovich look in his eye, but the fucker's persistent, grabbing at Ian and sneering at Mickey, so Ian just nods, once. He mutters at Mickey to remember his parole, and then that's that. The guy's leaving with a broken nose and bruised pride and Mickey's laughing because the dumbass tried to headbutt him as if he wasn't practically a fucking professional at headbutting fuckers and the dumbass ended up with a knee to the face instead.

 

Their apartment is in a shitty part of Brooklyn and sometimes the noise is deafening. It's backfiring cars and shouting and fighting and police sirens but it's like a lullaby to their tiny apartment with windows that stick and a rusty fire escape outside. Ian's at least 60% sure the couple a few floors down are running drugs from their apartment, and either the people upstairs are bowling, moving furniture, or hosting fight night, but it reminds him of the constant chaos of the Gallagher house and that feels like home. Yev's passing all his classes and gets moved up to an advanced math class and when high school starts he joins a boxing club and when he comes home with near straight A's on his report card and a bruised cheekbone from the fight he won the week before, Mickey feels like he's about to explode with pride. Svet comes home from the bar one afternoon with divorce papers for Mickey to sign and a soft almost-smile. 

 

One of Mickey's coworkers invites him to a gun range, so he drags Ian. Well, he says drag. Like it was difficult to convince the redhead to come shoot guns on someone else's dime for an afternoon, complete with a chance to fucking socialize. Mickey's pretty sure the guy - his name's Andy and he's got Mickey helping with a rebuild of this ridiculously gorgeous 1963 cherry red Faraline - thinks he's about to show Mickey and Ian something special, but Mickey says nothing. 

Day of, they show up to this gun range just outside the city and Ian is bouncing on his heels with excitement. 

“Hey Milkovich,” Andy says, clapping Mickey on the shoulder. 

“Hey. Andy, this is my boyfriend Ian. Ian, Andy.” He says boyfriend with a little more force than necessary like he's daring someone to have a problem with it and he can feel Ian's smile from next to him. You could probably see Ian's smile from space most days. 

“Nice to meet you, man. Heard a lot about you.” Andy shakes Ian's hand. 

“Really?” 

“Well. No. Mickey almost never speaks. But I've heard your name more than once and I figure that's as close as it gets.” 

And Ian's laughing. Mickey knows he should probably be a little offended, but it's true and Ian's laughing and Mickey feels a little weak around the knees whenever Ian laughs so he just rolls his eyes and 

“Are we gonna get to the shooting or are we gonna sit here and chat like a bunch of fuckin’ chicks?” 

So they rent the guns, handguns. Ian's testing the weight in his hands, it's been too long, but it's as familiar to him as the baseball bat next to their door. The long-nailed lady behind the counter offers them hearing protection and Andy takes the three sets of ear muffs while Mickey's counting blanks. They're in a row, in front of targets, and Andy starts to explain, looking at Ian. 

“So, uh. You just wanna look over the sight, here, and…”

And Ian frowns, Mickey's smirking, and Andy raises his eyebrow. Then Ian laughs and turns to the target.

He starts shooting. Andy yelps and covers his ears, but Mickey barely even flinches, watching passively, leaning against the wall and relaxing into the way Ian looks. Fucking hot, if you ask Mickey, shoulder and arm muscles rippling beneath his t-shirt, strong and firm and  _ sexy as fuck, Gallagher. _ His aim is, as always, fucking perfect. Right shoulder, left shoulder, right leg, left leg, heart, brain. 

Andy has his ear muffs on and a shocked expression on his face but he says nothing. Ian gestures Mickey to the target next to him. 

Ian loves watching Mickey shoot. He knows his own form is perfect, precise and learned, but Mickey shoots like the gun is an extension of his hand, easy and smooth and he looks so calm and so aggressive and it kinda makes Ian's mouth water in a way it probably shouldn't. Ian laughs when Mickey's done shooting, looking at the groupings on the target. Groin, jaw, brain. Mickey puts the gun down, smirking at Ian. 

Andy stares for a beat and then lowers his ear muffs. “Holy shit. I didn't know you could shoot like that. I mean, Mickey, I figured. But Ian, you look like…” 

Mickey smirked. “Like the human embodiment of fuckin’ sunshine? He's deadly, man.” 

“How!?” Andy is still gaping. 

Ian's arms are crossed over his chest. “What was it Yev said when he got into that fight when we first moved here?” He smiled at Mickey, green eyes glittering. “We're fuckin’ South Side, bitch.” 

“South Side, as in...Chicago?” 

Ian rolls his eyes. “As in my dad's a drunk, my mom's a dead addict, my older sister's on again off again boyfriend is a professional car thief, my younger brother once tried to kill a man with rat poison and used to sell guns at school to pay rent, and I used to be a fucking stripper.” 

“You were a stripper?” 

“I was manic and coked out and needed money, but yeah. I was a stripper.” 

Mickey's just smirking at the look on Andy's face, at Ian's nonchalance, at the way all of that seems so far away and so normal at the same time. 

“How did you even meet?” Andy was looking between them. Ian's eyes widened. 

Mickey answers. “My kid sister got mad he wouldn't sleep with her, told me he raped her. So I threatened to kill him, and then she called me off. Then he came after me with a tire iron for stealing his creepy fuckin’ boss's gun and we ended up fucking.” 

“....your sister...you….WHAT?” 

“Can we get back to the shooting now, or?” Mickey rubbed his nose.

They get back to shooting, and Andy looks like he maybe might be terrified by the time they leave. 

Mickey and Ian go home to a blissfully empty apartment and start undressing before they even get to their bedroom, touches bruising and brutal and kisses hard enough to draw blood, and it's familiar and it's rough and it's  _ them  _ in a way Mickey feels down to his fucking  _ toes _ . 

 

One day, Mickey is in his boss's office going over order forms, and he sees the guy's wedding band. It's a dark blue silicone, and Mickey raises an eyebrow. 

“Whaddya wear a rubber fuckin’ wedding ring for?” He asks around his unlit cigarette, aiming for what he hopes is casual but probably misses by about the length of a dozen baseball fields.

His boss, to the old man's credit, doesn't comment, just looks at his hand, at the ring in question. “Lot less likely to lose a finger with this sucker than a metal one. Doesn't snag on parts or pinch.” The old man appears to think for a moment. “Apparently they're recommended for people who do hard labor, or like, military, cops, first responders, that kind of shit.”  

Mickey doesn't respond, but he thinks it's a pretty good idea, considering. When Ian's got a late shift one night, after Yev's gone to his room and Svet is still at the bar, Mickey opens the laptop he and Ian share, orders one, and clears it from his search history. It arrives and he can't stop staring at it for a solid fucking minute. It's a steely grey color and the inscription kinda a little makes Mickey feel a little like crying. It feels like he's frozen on the bed, but then he hears Ian and Yevgeny walking into the apartment, talking loudly, and he quickly hides the box under his work shirts in the drawer. 

A couple weeks later, it's the anniversary of the morning Ian showed up at Mickey's place with the fucking tire iron all those years ago (don't fucking ask how or why Mickey remembers, he'll claim he doesn't know what the fuck you're talking about). Yev is out at a friend's house, something about a new video game, something something, Mickey was only half paying attention (and had the kid's address and name memorized in case he needed to handle anything later), and Svet had promised she'd make herself scarce. So Mickey found out from one of the guys at the garage, who found out from his brother, about this abandoned warehouse a couple blocks over that was scheduled for demolition to make way for some shitty high rise apartments - Andy had gone on this tirade about gentrification and the destruction of Redhook, but Mickey was only half listening, these tirades happened so fucking often - and found out how to sneak in. 

So, he packs a backpack with some sandwiches from that deli down the street that Ian loves so damn much (there’s a lot Mickey missed about Chicago sometimes, but New York definitely does delis better), a couple sodas, and slides the ring box in his jacket pocket. When Ian comes home from work, Mickey’s wearing a pair of new-ish jeans, a dark striped button down (Ian had mentioned once how much he loved when Mickey wore button down shirts and Mickey would rather be shot in the ass again than admit it, but he wears them every chance he gets, now), and a smirk. 

“What’s going on, Mick?” Ian’s eyes narrow, suspicious. 

“We’re going out.” Mickey leaves no room for debate. 

“Out?” Ian asks, eyebrows raising. “Like, out-out?”

“Dress warm.”

“I assume you won’t tell me where we’re going?”

Mickey says nothing. 

“Right.” Ian walks by, kissing the top of Mickey’s hair as he passes the sofa where he’s sitting. Mickey tilts his head up to receive the kiss. “Give me like 10 minutes.” 

Fifteen minutes later, they’re walking out of their building, bundled in coats and scarves. Ian stops to help Mrs. Backwater, the geriatric old lady with a mean stare and a meaner gumbo, from two floors down carry her even more geriatric chihuahua down the stairs. Fuckin’ boy scout. Mickey rolls his eyes, smiling internally. The old lady pats Ian on the back and smiles almost-fondly at Mickey in a way that makes him a little terrified. 

Finally, they’re walking down the sidewalk. It’s getting later, and people are rushing by them, faces tucked into jackets and scarves to protect from the biting wind. 

“Where to, Mr. Milkovich?” Ian asks with a grin. 

Mickey rolls his eyes. Again. “Shut up and follow me, Firecrotch.” 

So they walk. They’ve always been like this. Ian is bright and open and energetic, throwing himself wide and far and making everyone around him fall a little bit in love. So good, so fucking good. And Mickey, Mickey’s tight and closed off and probably more than a little grouchy, vulgar and obscene, knowing how to make people turn away before they’ve realized they don’t like him. But Ian just smiles bright at him, even after all these years, like it’s funny, like it’s endearing, like Mickey’s worth something. And Mickey, well, he may pretend he fucking hates it when Ian gets giddy and excited about shit, but when he’s being really honest with himself, he’ll admit it, that bright smile on the redhead’s face makes him feel warm down to his fucking toes and he’d do near about anything to keep it there, do near about anything for this gangly fucker, his gangly fucker. 

Mickey pulls out a cigarette and fumbles with the lighter in his cold fingers until Ian smiles and rolls his eyes, pulls his own gloves off, and yanks the lighter out of Mickey’s hands, lighting the cigarette for him. 

“Told you you should get some gloves, Mick.”

“Fuck off, Gallagher.”

“Mmm.” Ian just smiles, tucking the lighter back in Mickey’s front pocket with a devious grin and then pulling his gloves back on. 

Finally, they’re at the warehouse. Mickey walks around to the back. There’s a shitty rent-a-fence surrounding the thing, but no security. There’s a fucked up fence panel exactly where he was told there would be one, and he’s glad for that, because he’s not sure he can hop a fence quite as easily as he could 20 years ago. He is, after all, almost 35 now. He tugs the shitty panel to the side and gestures to his boyfriend to go through.

Ian looks at Mickey, confused. 

“I know the foreman’s brother, it’s fine. As long as we don’t break anything or steal anything. Hurry the fuck up, I wanna get out of the wind.”

“Mick. We are over 30 fucking years old…” 

“Gallagher.” Mickey presses his thumb to his nose. “Would you hurry the fucking hell up? I’m clearly not gettin’ any fucking younger.”

Ian bites his lip, but ducks under the fucked up fence panel after looking around to check if anyone was watching. This is New York. Even if someone was around, they sure as shit weren’t paying attention. With one more backward glance, Mickey follows. 

Mickey’s heart is racing a little, and a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. Ian’s staring at him, waiting, so he grabs Ian’s hand and tugs. 

Ian’s face breaks out into a grin and he lets himself be dragged along, tripping a little to keep up. He feels 16 all over again, young and reckless and invincible, following Mickey, dragging Mickey, always falling back together. He’s a teenager again, sneaking into the baseball dugout, sneaking under the bleachers at school, running from the cops, screaming to the sky and daring the world to stop them. Kissing Mickey, hard and bruising, in a crowded club, in a quiet van outside his ex’s ex-wife’s house, outside the Alibi covered in blood with bruised ribs. They’re not as young as they used to be - Ian had found a couple of grey hairs at Mickey’s temples a few nights ago (and said nothing, though he found himself weirdly endeared by the promise his boyfriend’s dignified aging), and he had wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth - but Ian’s pretty sure he would always feel this, this thud-thud-thudding throughout his entire body when Mickey got that glinting excitement in his eyes, that recklessly happy Southside teenager look, that “your god can’t stop me now” look. 

They enter a dark and cool warehouse, climb a couple staircases, and they’re sitting in some loft type thing. The wind whistles outside, but it can’t get into this little corner and it’s a little warmer here. There’s graffiti and empty bottles and Ian’s pretty sure he can see condoms and a crack pipe in one corner. But it reminds him of the abandoned warehouse back in Chicago, where he used to run obstacle courses while Mickey shot into the air. He smiles at the memory, shaking his head a little. 

“What?” Mickey asks, voice cutting hard through the windowless loft. 

Ian smiles. “I’m just thinking - remember when I used to run that obstacle course in the warehouse like this back home?”

“And I fuckin’ shot at you?”

“Yeah.” Ian shakes his head again. “God we were fuckin’ idiots.”

Mickey scoffs, sitting down, legs out in front of him, leaning against the cold wall. “I recall something about geriatric viagroids.”

Ian sits down, shoving Mickey gently with his shoulder. “Shut up.” He smiles. Mickey’s blue eyes are bright in the dim light. “Got you to kiss me, didn’t I?”

“Eh, fuck off, tough guy.” Mickey grouches, but his voice is soft. He leans over and kisses Ian, quick and gentle.

Ian puts his hands up in defense when Mickey leans back again. “Hey, I was like 17. I was a teenage gay kid in the fucking Southside and I was in love with a guy so deep in the fucking closet I’m pretty sure he could find Narnia. My options were pretty limited.”

“You know I loved you, too, right?” Mickey fiddles with his lighter, spinning it around in his hand. “I don’t think I knew it quite yet, then, but. I think it’s always been you.”

“I had a pretty good idea, Mick.” Ian covers Mickey’s restless fingers with his own. 

They’re quiet for a moment. 

“So, what, exactly, are we doing here, then?” Ian looks around at the dark space.

Mickey unzips his backpack, pulling out the food. “Thought we could eat dinner.”

“Are we havin’ a picnic, Mick?”

“Fuck you, is what we’re having.” Mickey tosses one of the sandwich at Ian.

“Love you, too.”

For a few minutes, they sit in comparative silence. The wind is blowing, hard and angry, rattling at the windows below them, and there’s a massive skylight they can kinda see through in the middle of the building. Not that it really matters, here, most of what they’re seeing is the city’s bright lights, but it’s kind of like stargazing a little bit. They eat, and Ian teasingly tosses a crumpled napkin at Mickey. 

“Don’t make me kick your ass, Gallagher.” Mickey says, but it’s got absolutely no bite. He’s reminded of running away from that doctor after headbutting him, Ian chasing him down the alley, pretending to wrestle with each other.

“Are you even sure you could, old man?” Ian’s bright green eyes are glittering in the dark, teasing and laughing and Mickey’s pretty sure he’s never been more in love.

“Oh, I’m an old man, now? Should I make the joke, or will you?”

Ian rolls his eyes. “Oh you’re very funny, Mick. Real fuckin’ comedian, for sure.”

“Bet I could still knock you on your ass, Carrot Top.” 

“Oh yeah?”

Mickey raises his eyebrow, smirks. “Bet you anything.”

“Anything?”

Mickey smirks at Ian, knowing he’s about to win without even landing a punch. “I bet you that I can knock you on your ass. I’ll even let you pick the terms, that’s how sure I am.”

Ian’s eyebrows are raised. He stands up. Mickey stands, too, shoves his left hand in his jacket pocket. He can feel the ring box. 

“Alright, then, Mick. Winner gets a blow job.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Classy, Gallagher.”

Ian just shrugs, smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Mickey notices, in this weird almost darkness, the wrinkles around Ian’s eyes and mouth, and somehow it makes him feel inexplicably safe, ridiculously in love. If you had asked 17 year old Mickey, that morning, when he woke up with a tire iron pressed between his shoulder blades, if he would be here now - in an empty, abandoned warehouse, nearly 35 years old, with greying hair, a ring in his pocket, Ian Gallagher smilingly in love with him, he probably would’ve punched you in the face and then told you there was no way he was gonna live past 21, let alone all that other shit. But he was there anyway, in spite of it all, because of it all. Free.

He steps one foot forward. Ian steps one back, shaking his arms like he’s preparing for an actual fight. Mickey smirks. They stand like that for a moment, frozen like the beginning of the weirdest fucking dance in history. Then Mickey speaks.

“Do you remember Yev’s christening party?”

Ian snorts out a breath. “Do you mean, do I remember almost being killed by your dad and all his friends? Or do I remember you telling your dad and most of the Alibi that you like when I fuck you?” His smile falls a little bit, his voice is softer. “Or do I remember pushing you to come out before you were ready because I was being a selfish asshole?”

Mickey steps into Ian’s space, putting one hand on Ian’s upper arm. His jacket was cold. “You’ve never made me do anything I didn’t already want to do, Ian. You should know that.”

Ian’s brow furrows. “It was still a dick move.”

“Yeah, maybe. We did almost die.” Ian scoffs, but it’s a little bit like laughing, so Mickey pushes onward. “Do you remember what you said, though?”

“Which thing?” Ian looks confused, soft. 

“You told me I wasn’t free.”

Ian nods. “You told me that what you and I have makes you free, not what those assholes knew.” He pauses, smiling for real this time. “I think about that shit all the time. I was such a dick not to hear it, then, but. I think that’s the sweetest fucking thing you’ve ever fucking said to me.”

“Oh, you know me. Fucking romantic, Carrot Top.” 

Ian laughs, head thrown back. “Oh, definitely. Hallmark should hire you.”

“You were right, though. I wasn’t free.” Ian opens his mouth to protest, but Mickey grabs his hand, cuts him off with a slight shake of his head. “I mean, I was right, too. Being with you, that makes me freer than anything. But being able to be with you, to have people know I’m with you, I’m yours, you’re mine. Being able to be proud of that shit, to own it. That’s so real, so free, sometimes I swear to fucking  _ god,  _ Gallagher, I don’t know what to do with myself. Every goddamn day, I get to tell people that of all the douchebags you could’ve picked from, you picked me. And that shit is fucking ridiculous.”

Ian’s gaping, now. Eyes wide, jaw dropped, fucking speechless. He’s pretty sure he’s never heard Mickey say that many words in a fucking row, to be so fucking honest, so fucking sweet, it’s almost weird. He almost wants to punch Mickey just to make sure it’s still Mickey, not some weird ass body swap situation. But then Mickey lets go of his hand, and drops to one knee with a lot more effort than he’d ever admit it took. 

“Guess my point is, Gallagher. Wanna get hitched? Buy a dog, put a stupid fucking sweater on it, be super fucking embarrassing and gay forever?” He reached in his pocket, and pulled the ring out. 

“Oh fuck.” Ian murmurs. He trips, hands over his mouth.  

“Does that count on you falling on your ass?” Mickey asks, bright blues glinting, smirk twitching. 

Ian drops down to his knees in front of Mickey. “Yes. Yes and yes and a million times yes, but if we get a dog and you put a sweater on it, I’m never gonna fuck you again.”

“So, yes you’ll marry me, or yes I just won the bet?” Mickey raises his eyebrows. 

Ian grabs his face with both hands and yanks him into a hard and excited kiss. It’s way more teeth than it should be, but Ian can’t fucking stop smiling. He pulls back for a second. Mickey adjusts so he’s kneeling now. They’re practically chest to chest.

“Both, you fucking idiot.” He kisses Mickey again, and then starts fumbling for the ring. “I love you so fucking much.” 

“Love you, too, Ian.” Mickey says, his voice heavy. He pulls his phone out and turns the flashlight on. He hands it to Ian, who holds it in his right hand, and Mickey pulls the ring out of the box.

“It’s…” Ian touches the steel grey ring. 

“It’s silicone. Safer than metal. My boss has one, said lots of first responders and laborers wear them, less likely to get caught on shit or break your finger.”

Ian smiles. He picks it up, squinting in the dark. “Did you get it inscribed?” Then he brings the flashlight closer, reads the tiny writing on the inside of the ring.  _ You make me free. _ He gasps. 

Wordlessly, Mickey takes the ring back, slides it on Ian’s ring finger, and then intertwines their fingers. He wraps his other arm around Ian’s torso, pulling the redhead closer. Slowly, gently, he kisses Ian. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears his phone clatter to the floor from Ian’s hand, and was passively thankful for the shatterproof case Andy had recommended. Then Ian is wrapping his hand around the back of Mickey’s neck, deepening the kiss, pulling Mickey closer until Ian’s sitting back on the cold concrete loft and Mickey is straddling Ian’s lap. Their hands come untwined, wrapping around each other, pulling closer. They come up for air, breath heavy and chests heaving. 

“Mick?” Ian whispers, foreheads pressed together. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m cold. Let’s go home so I can gracefully lose this bet in a place with a bed and a mostly-working heater.”

“Yeah.”

They pack up their stuff, quickly, into Mickey’s backpack, clamber back down the staircase in the dark. Quietly, the make their way back to the street, and Ian laces their fingers together. Mickey can feel the silicone on Ian’s finger against his hand and it sets his heart thudding in an irregular rhythm that feels like floating, flying. It’s colder, now, but Ian doesn’t put his gloves back on, just shoves his free hand in his pocket after helping Mickey light another cigarette. Quickly, the walk back home. 

A few hours later, in the dim light from the streetlights outside their bedroom window, Mickey looks down at Ian in their bed, wearing nothing but his ring and a goofy smile. It feels like freedom. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments are really really appreciated. 
> 
> My tumblr is iamthececimonster if you want to chat or make recommendations or scream into the void. 
> 
> Xoxo Gossip Girl


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